One Night in London
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Richard has realised what a terrible mistake he's made in letting Isobel go to France, and wants to do something to make it at least a little bit better.
1. Chapter 1

As soon as she had gone, as soon as she had walked out of the door of his office, he had known it was the wrong thing. So terribly wrong. In fact he had known all along, but it was only now that it was too late that it clicked into place in his mind. She shouldn't have gone. She should have stayed there with him.

He should have realised why increasingly of late he felt a deep ache within his chest if he watched her for too long as she went about her business at the hospital. Why when they accidentally touched he felt an almighty compulsion to keep ahold of her hand and not let go. And now he had let her go to France without so much as batting an eyelid.

He stood paralysed for he didn't know how long; mesmerised by his own blindness, his stupidity. How could he have let Isobel Crawley walk out that door when he did not know when the next time he saw her would be? Would he ever see her again? No, that thought was too horrible to contemplate, and irrational as well. He _had _to see her again. He _needed _ to see her again. And he would, so help him God, as soon as possible.

Turning to look at the clock, he was horrified to discover that he had been standing rooted to the spot where she had left him for half an hour. Her train would have gone. Cursing himself, he took up his chair as briskly as he could, reaching for the telephone in the same moment. One telephone call to his unit command should do it. Emergency leave on compassionate grounds, whatever it took to get himself thirty six or maybe even forty eight hours leave he would tell them. Tomorrow she would be on that boat and, hell, he would shoot his own foot off if it meant that he could see Isobel once more before she went to France.

…**...**

He clutched the slip of paper in his gloved hands. Mrs Bird had required far less persuading than he had anticipated to surrender it, almost as if she had been told to give it up if asked. He kept glancing at the address, though he had surely read it a thousand times by now. It was cold and he did not know Bloomsbury very well, but he would not give up. He couldn't; every time his footsteps slowed, the thought of Isobel's face drove him on. In his more panicked moments, he thought that he could not remember what she looked like, but that was ridiculous; he had seen her this morning. He told himself that he knew her face by heart, and touched the breast pocket of his coat where a photograph of her lay, and kept walking. At other times, he thanked God for the friend of hers who had offered her their unoccupied townhouse to stay in the night before she went to Dover, because it meant that he had a chance of finding her.

…**...**

The door was answered by a young maid servant who led him into the drawing room, telling him rather haughtily that "missus was busy" and probably wouldn't see anyone anyway.

"She'll see me," he assured her, sounding much more confident than he felt, "My name is Richard Clarkson. Tell her I'm here, and I'll wait."

The girl looked him up and down- though she was shorter than him she still managed to survey him through her nose- and flounced back out into the passage. He waited alone, wondering what on earth he was going to say to her. No one convincing proposition had formed itself in his head for the entire journey down from York.

Sitting alone in the well-appointed drawing room, everything suddenly seemed a lot more subdued than it had during the rigorous train journey and the rapidly racing heart beat of his journey through Bloomsbury from King's Cross. He wondered for a moment in this quaint and innocent surrounding that not quarter of an hour ago, his thoughts had been entirely possessed by one woman; unable to wrench themselves from the sight of her hair, or the nearness of her skin, the delicate curve of her figure. Then, he heard the rapid scuffle of footsteps in the corridor, and the sound of voices.

"Please, ma'am," came the maidservant's voice, ill-hushed and distressed, "Lady Emily wouldn't like it, not in her house, it's not proper."

"Oh, to hell with propriety, Alice!"

_Her_ voice, that she didn't trouble to lower. He felt his throat constrict for a moment with pride and love for her, before the door opened rapidly.

She was there; her hair half up, as if she had been pinning it back and suddenly stopped, the loose strands falling over the shoulders of her purple dress. Her eyes were drawn wide and bright with disbelief, exhilaration, and something like joy.

And suddenly, not feeling restrained any more, he spoke.

"I don't want you to go."

There was a palpable silence for a moment before she spoke.

"Alice," her voice demanded instantly that she was not to be argued with, "Send word round to Mrs Russel's that I won't be there this evening. Say I'm ill, anything. Then consider yourself dismissed for the evening."

Alice continued to goggle at them both for a moment, apparently unable to believe her eyes or ears, until a sharp look from Isobel sent her hurriedly out of the door, giving them both a disapproving glance as she went.

Left alone at last with Isobel, Richard felt himself both relax and become more anxious. From her manner, he could not quite tell how she'd taken his confession- hastily blurted out in front of a servant. Nevertheless, standing there wearing the most beautifully alluring of enigmatic expressions, he had the desire to simply cross the room and kiss her red lips, before they faded away from him entirely.

At last she spoke, quietly, fairly, as if she barely trusted herself.

"I don't think you can really ask that of me, Richard," she told him softly, "One word, the suggestion of a word from you while I was still at Downton, and I've had stayed in a heartbeat. It's too late now. I've committed myself to going, and I have to no matter if... no matter what."

He could tell that she was forcing herself to look at him, so he did her the courtesy of looking straight back at her.

"I didn't tell you to stay," he pointed out, "I know you can't, Isobel. But I still don't want you to go. And, believe me, I wish I'd said so before." 

Never breaking his gaze from hers, he saw a single tear form in the corner of one of her eyes.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Due to my being half-asleep when I wrote the last chapter, there were a couple of fairly pivotal typos: probably resulting in not much making sense. I have updated chapter one, and you might want to read the end of it again. I can only apologise profusely for my sleepiness. Thank you for all of your reviews so far. **

He did not quite know what to do next, he could only stand there, transfixed, and watch her. Though keeping perfectly still, she almost seemed to shudder as the water round the rim of her eyes slipped and a tear ghosted down her face. Her shoulders slumped slightly out of their usual upright stance as she stared at the floor, almost blankly, but at the same time as if every emotion he could put a name to raced fleetingly through her mind. Her lower lip seemed to quiver and she nipped it back by biting it. It went on for too long for him to bear, and he had to say something.

"I wouldn't have come here if I knew it would upset you," he told her, "Believe me, Isobel, that was the last thing I wanted."

She raised her head quickly, almost aggressively, and for a moment he thought he was in for a good telling off. But when she spoke and she looked him full in the eye- which she did now- there was more desperation than anger in her look. He didn't know which was worse.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Richard," she told him.

"Do you wish I hadn't come here?" he asked.

"Yes. I don't know," she turned away from him hurriedly, facing the whiteness of the still light window covered by net curtains, reflecting slightly against her and making her radiate white slightly, "Things would have been a lot easier if you had never said anything at all."

Her arms were crossed defensively across her waist, holding her middle for comfort. In fact, it only made her look singular and isolated. He had to actively fight the urge to simply step up close behind her and wrap his arms around her too, keeping her, holding her close to him, letting her her lean her head back against him and cry herself out of whatever tears she had. But, like she said, things weren't anywhere near that simple.

There was an awful singing silence for moments that spread itself thickly into an eternity before him; separating them. She still faced away from him, he sensed her struggling to gain her composure: one arm still resting across her stomach, the other poised against it, pressing her fist against her lips. Finally, she spoke.

"I have to go to Paris," she declared, "There is no way out. I cannot justify myself staying."

"Not even if you stayed for me?" he knew it was selfish, it was as selfish as it was possible to be, "There are higher things than war, Isobel. Better things."

She turned her head back to face him, something like incredulity in her face.

"Because I would be the only one of millions leaving better things behind," she replied sharply, "I alone am sacrificing something that I badly want. Where would we be if everyone in the same position stayed at home?"

"I didn't-..."

"You didn't think, Richard."

He could feel his face flushed with indignation, she had turned away from him once again. Now his eyes flitted towards the floor, willing them not to swim. Many times he had admired Isobel's determination- her "ill-bred ferocity" Lady Violet called it. He liked it less when he was up against it. The silence expanded again.

"None of this is fair," she finally managed, "None of it. It's all wrong."

Well, that he could agree with.

"Couldn't you-..." he began, not quite knowing where he was going with it yet, "Couldn't you say that you have reconsidered, in terms of your safety? It will be dangerous, Isobel."

"I'm hardly front line troops," she replied sharply, with a hint of an ill-humoured laugh.

"No, but you'll be as close to that as they'd allow a woman to be, knowing you," he told her, adding this last with half a smile before a much more serious thought struck him, "If anything was to happen to-... I don't know," he finished hopelessly, "I don't know."

He realised that she had turned around to look at him again, and was watching him with a considerably softer expression. She was incredibly still and gentle now.

"Richard," she told him in little more than a whisper, "Don't think about that."

He was entirely still, unable to look into her eyes, staring inertly at her throat instead. He felt truly wretched, selfish, an almighty fool, a complete swine for having put her through this, frightened, so very frightened by the thought of losing her and too much in love with her to be able to think of anything other than it. It was like an awful dream.

"Richard," he was surprised to find she had crossed back towards him, her hand wrapping tentatively and tenderly around his wrist, "Don't. Don't."

She looked close to tears again as he raised his head slowly, her face very close to his. He felt her slightly erratic breath brush against his lower lip an chin. She was so beautiful, so so beautiful, so close to him, and yet fragile, not his in the slightest, like a ghost. She would soon be gone. So bloody beautiful.

He heard her name escape his lips in a half groan, as he finally closed the distance between them.

"Isobel-..."

She did not pull away as he kissed her; softly at first, so softly that the lips barely caressed each other, slowly deepening, pushing closer together until his mouth finally engulfed hers and her lips slipped open to allow him better access.

When they pulled apart, they were both breathless. In spite of her tears, her eyes were alight once more with with the exhilaration of it. Spurred on by her obvious reaction to their kiss, by the heady intoxication it threw him into, he was willing to say anything, try anything that might keep her with him.

"Don't go," he pleaded with her once more, his hands cupping each side of her face, holding her forehead to rest against his, "I've never begged anything of anyone in my life, but I'm begging you not to go."

"Richard," her hands rested gently over his, "I have to. You know I have to," cautiously, she lifted her head away from his, "But that doesn't mean I don't want to stay. I want to stay with you more than anything."

She had moved his hands to clasp them together, partially covered by her own smaller ones, half-clasping them to her chest; looking him cleanly in the eye.

"I love you too."

He waited for a long moment, trying to convince himself that he had not drastically misheard, or misunderstood. But what was there to misunderstand in _that_? A half smile flitted across his face.

"I'm supposed to tell you that I love _you _before you say that."

"You did, without the words."

He leant in and kissed her again, not quite as deeply but still as passionately. There was still intense sadness there, the gradual tick of the clock counting down the moments they had left, but also there was an immense feeling of irrepressible joy. His hand slipped tentatively to her waist to hold her more closely to him, and she made up the rest of the distance of her own accord, leaning in and pressing her body to his.

"I love you, Isobel," he whispered against her lips.

"I know, I know."

They did not speak about moving into her bedroom, but somehow he found himself with his hand in hers, being led up to the second floor. Upon the closing of the door, they seemed to close themselves off from the rest of the world. They would make the most of their last hours together, that much was certain.

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	3. Chapter 3

As they moved towards the bed, it was safe to say that his mind had been completely purged of any other thoughts than ones of her. He kissed her between the long hurried steps, finally backing her against the edge of the mattress and lowering her gently down to lie on the white sheets. He took his shoes off and lay down beside her. He reached a hand to her waist and drew her to him.

They kissed with more passion than he'd known in his life for what could have been anything from a minute to an hour. Long looks across the hospital ward, fleeting touches of their hands and brushes of their arms, moments when he found himself unconsciously watching the sway of her walk seemed to come pouring out of them both at the touching of their lips, as they lay finally feeling each other as they had wanted to so desperately. He found himself lying over her, supporting his weight on his arms, as they finally broke apart, short of breath and overwhelmed.

She smiled warmly up at him, and raised her hand to smooth across the skin of his face.

"Shh, my darling, we have all night," she told him, "All night."

The tone with which she spoke the endearment to him seemed to catch something in the back of his throat. He thought she saw the change in his eyes as he thought instantly of how he loved and how he would soon lose her, so he quickly buried his face in her neck to kiss her again. This was not a time for sadness, but the most beautiful burst of ecstatic happiness they could possibly know. While they still had the time. He kissed her neck more fervently still.

"Isobel, I love you," he whispered against her throat.

He felt her swallow hard. Her arms wrapped tightly around his back, they lay as still as they had been frantic moments ago, though breathing heavily. He could feel her pulse racing, and kissed her throat once more before dipping lower to lavish attention on her collarbone.

Drawing away, he looked at her face. Her hair which she hadn't ever got around to pinning up lay splayed in its varying brown and gold strands across the white of the pillow. With only a little difficulty, he removed the main clip holding it in place. He was caught between his desire to push aside her skirts and make love to her there and then, and the equally pressing need he felt to hold her, just hold her forever, never letting her leave his arms. Slowly, chastely, he brushed his hand against her hair, wrapping it softly around his fingers. He looked into her eyes more directly and unashamedly than he'd dare to with any other person, and she return it.

Then she laughed and the moment was broken, but he didn't mind. He didn't think he could mind her laughter.

"What?" he asked.

"I know I said we had all night, but if you remain this gentlemanly I think you might drive me mad."

Given that at that moment one of his hands still lingered comfortably at her waist and one of his legs lay in between her thighs, he could only take that remark as and encouraging one. Slowly, he rolled away from her so that he could work on the buttons of her dress without squashing her. She reached out to the top of the bed to switch off the electric light, but he caught her hand before she could. It was only then that he saw a flicker of anxiety in her eyes.

"Isobel..."

"Just..." she spoke carefully, as if it was costing her a great effort to say this, "I just hope you're ready to have your illusions about my brilliantly youthful body thoroughly shattered."

He looked clearly at her again, willing her to understand him.

"Isobel, I don't care if you're hideous," he told her bluntly, "Because I know I won't be able to see it. You are beautiful to me, you already are. And I hope that's all that matters. I want to see you."

Still, he waited for her reply. She nodded haltingly and he resumed the unfastening of the buttons, tenderly kissing each new stretch of skin as it was exposed. The sound of her hitching breath made him smile against her chest as her undid the final button and pushed the dress over her shoulders, lifting himself away from her so that she could take it off easily.

Before they lay back down she made short work of his shirt, throwing it carelessly to the side and off the bed, reaching her hands back around his neck and drawing him back in for a kiss. He complied eagerly, lying over her once more. Feeling his weight above her- he was not by any means too heavy- was reassuring, it made her feel blissfully grounded and stable.

The feeling of his hands on her bare legs surprised her; he had been distracting her beautifully by planting kisses along the curve of her breast above her corset. He brushed up and down, along the insides of her thighs, starting at her knees, drawing perilously close to her knickers. Withdrawing for a moment, he deftly dealt with the fastenings of her corset, discarding it as haphazardly as she had done his shirt. He looked at her once more, before drawing her shift swiftly above her head and off. She blinked at him rather foolishly as he took her in, hoping, hoping desperately that he would remain true to his word, difficult as that might be.

"Oh, Isobel..." his voice sounded hoarse.

She caught his eye just before he lowered his head to kiss her breasts, and felt a fleeting urge to weep for joy.

A while later, she felt his hands return to her thighs, travelling up more purposefully than before, reaching her undergarment and hooking his fingers under the waistband to draw it down her legs. He stood back, removing his trousers and shorts to lie back down beside her. His hands returned to her thighs, resting over her folds, parting her and slipping a finger inside of her. She allowed him to tease her for a while, the heady sweetness of it catching in her throat,making her make noises that she hoped wouldn't put him off, but which only seemed to spur him on, until she started to worry that she really wouldn't be able to hold back.

"Richard..." she managed to gasp, "Richard, together."

He did not stop.

"Richa-..."

"Let me do this for you," he cut across her, "Please."

Just at that moment, she let a low moan escape from her chest. She felt him looking into her eyes, coaxing her.

"Come on," he whispered, "For me."

As soon as he lowered his lips to kiss her centre, she knew she was utterly done for. He continued to stroke her through her climax, not relenting at all through the deep jutting movements that her hips made, so that before her first climax was properly over the feeling started to build again, deep in her stomach.

"Richard, please!"

This time he did not resist, slipping fully inside of her until their hips met, pausing only for a second to ensure that she was comfortable before setting a fast pace. Neither could last very long, but the height of her climax was the strongest and the fullest that she had known in her life. She hadn't known it could be like that. For a moment before it happened, she considered holding back, prolonging this moment before the most ineffable bliss for as long as she could, so she could stay here with him like this, forever. But it was impossible. Unable to think of anything else, she focused full on his eyes as she tumbled over the edge, drawing his body as close to hers as they tumbled over the edge within seconds of each other.

It did not surprise her to find that she was crying when her senses finally came back, and she found their bodies entangled, collapsed together. She suspected that he was too, quietly, barely enough to notice, but still there.

He slipped out of her, pulling her to his side to lie with him, holding her as tightly as he could, letting her bury her chin in his neck as the first blissful-wretched sob of lovers who have to leave each other shook through her shoulders, and she began to weep quietly.

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	4. Chapter 4

The sheets were cool as she slipped between them, she could feel it even through her nightdress. The room itself was cool, and dark. It had been a welcome change at first from the creeping warmth of travelling on a halting train from Calais and making her way across half of Paris. It was by no means the height of luxury but it was clean and had everything she needed. Every item of furniture she needed, anyway.

The day had been long to the point where she couldn't quite believe that it had only been that morning that she had awoken in Bloomsbury, wrapped securely in Richard's arms, held against his chest, her legs entwined with his. It seemed like another lifetime, another world. She got into bed, knowing full well that she wasn't going to get to sleep for hours, there just wasn't anything else to do- without even thinking she had unpacked, had a quick bath and she wasn't hungry- and soon she would be rushed off her feet, so it made sense to get some rest now. She lay back in her bed staring at the patch of light that the gap in the curtains cast on the ceiling.

It was then that it sunk in- coolly and dispassionately- how much she hated, loathed and despised her situation. She had been a bloody fool. She didn't know who she was kidding- nobody, probably-: she didn't want to be here one little bit. Perhaps she should be here, it probably was her duty, but she didn't like it at all. She wanted-... oh, she wanted none of it to ever have happened.

But that wasn't right either, she thought a little crossly. She couldn't, _couldn't_, regret last night with Richard. Or this morning. Not for all the world. Yes, it occurred to her now that her time of life was rather late to be taking a lover, but really, when it came down to it, she didn't care one little bit. She loved him, plainly and simply. Painfully. Their age was the very least of their problems.

She wished that she hadn't left Downton. She wished that she was in her own bed now, or his, instead of this lonely, narrow single bed, that forced you to turn every once every ten minutes to stop your back aching. Why couldn't the ridiculous man have declared his passion for _before _she'd left? Things would have been a lot easier then. She'd have stayed, for one thing. If the price that she had to pay for him was a little deference to Cousin Cora- whether or not she deserved it was another matter altogether- she'd pay it willingly. She cursed herself: she had always been such a bloody martyr, and now it was coming back to bite her. She only wished she had known.

But there was only so much she could go around in circles like this, blaming and not blaming. She herself was as much to blame as anyone else. It savoured too much of bitterness, and wide awake as she was, she didn't have the energy for bitterness. She turned again onto her side, the bedsprings digging uncomfortably into her back.

Then she did something that she hadn't done since the grim time just after Reginald died. She imagined her face nuzzling into a stable, masculine neck, brushing against her nose, a chin resting on top of her head. She imagined Richard's arms keeping her firmly beside him, too strong for her to move even if she had wanted to. The pattern of his sleepy breathing all around her, so that she seemed to breath in time with him, her heart slowing down to follow it. Like they had woken this morning:

He had held her all the way through the night, they woke in the same position as they had gone to sleep in. Her stirring woke him too. She had wondered if it mightn't be easiest for both of them if she just got out of bed quietly and left him, without having look into his eyes again, she wasn't sure if she could stand to go then. But he was waking now; it seemed she would be put to the test. Half clouded by sleep, they stared at each other, lying side by side. She tremulously waited for some sign of regret, but none arrived. Her eyes felt funny from crying last night, and she wondered if his did too. He smiled- a little sadly, she thought- and leant forward to kiss her.

Her arms found their way of their own accord around his neck, pressing herself to him.

"Oh, I love you, Richard," she rested her forehead against his, deliberately shutting her eyes, "But I'm going. Can you forgive me?"

"I forgive you."

He spoke in a soft, low voice, as if trying to push the feeling out of it. Wisely too: too much feeling and she was sure to feel her resolve shifting. She opened her eyes rather timidly.

"Don't forget me, though," she told him, a small smile playing across her features, "Promise me."

"You're committed to my memory," he replied, then, in a softer voice, "Come back, Isobel. Please come back."

"Of course I'll come back," her hands brushed up and down his back to soothe him as she spoke, "I thought we'd established that I've no intention of getting shot. Whatever made you think that I wouldn't?"

"There are a lot of younger and better looking men than me in Paris," he told her, "And you're a very beautiful woman. You'll be noticed, I know it."

"Well, I'll just have to tell the suitors who come and hammer down my door that I'm spoken for," she told him, "Honestly, Richard, the ideas you take to your head."

"I'm sorry, Isobel."

"It's alright. It's rather flattering, really."

They lay quietly for a few moments.

"Isobel, how long have we got?"

"Nowhere near long enough," she lamented vaguely, then, catching the look in his eye, "But a little while. Enough for _that_."

He rolled her over so that she lay over him this time, her legs straddling his waist. Kissing her soundly, his hand wandered to her breasts, the other wrapping around her to hold the small of her back. She felt is excitement growing beneath her, brushing faintly against her as she gently rocked against his body. His mouth wandered down her neck and to her collar bone, down again to her breasts, lavishing them with attention. Her head through itself back as she felt the flush of heat travel down her neck to her chest.

He had teased her enough, though she knew that the faster she went, the sooner this would be over she couldn't hold herself back any further. He groaned as she took him into her hand and lowered herself onto him, taking her hips in his hands to steady her as her whole body seemed to buck erratically with the feelings he sent coursing through her. She focused her entire energy on the point where their bodies met, thinking of nothing else. Her climax came harder and faster than the night before, and she couldn't help but cry out as she tumbled over the edge, him following shortly behind.

She hadn't had many things to pack- she hadn't taken much out of her case the night before- but he insisted on helping her, badly so that she had to repack everything that he'd put in.

They walked in near silence to King's Cross: he had to go back to Downton and her to Dover. He carried her case for her, though it was heavy and he had his bag as well. The light was bright and watery; it had rained the night before, after he'd got to her.

The station was busy: general hustle and bustle reigned, men in uniforms everywhere. Her train was due to leave first. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to go to Dover. He came with her to the platform, holding her hand so as not to lose her in the crowd.

They stopped before the train. She had known this moment would come as soon as she found that he was awake in her arms this morning. He kissed her quickly and deeply but held her to him for a long while. She closed her eyes, her chin pressed tightly into the shoulder of his overcoat. She had been debating whether to say it or not all the way to the station, and at the last moment she finally decided to. She felt in this moment as if there was nothing she could lose, for it was certain that she had him.

"I'll be wanting to marry you when I get back, you know," she whispered, "So don't go and get any other ideas, will you?"

He looked into her face with some disbelief, holding her by her arms.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, seriously.

She biting her lip a little, smiling, and kissed him.

"Of course I do."

Still holding onto her hand, helped her onto the train, following her into the compartment, making sure that she had a seat. The tenderness with which he took off his scarf and wrapped it around her neck threatened to make her cry, but she didn't. She didn't point out that it would be warmer in Paris. "I love you," he whispered, leaning down over her.

"I love you."

She held it like a talisman to her chest, as he descended from the train. It started to move carrying him away from her, growing smaller on the platform.

"I love you."

**End.**

**Who's up for a slightly more cheerful epilogue when she comes back? **


	5. Chapter 5

**(Happier) Epilogue.**

He had seen her briefly at the hospital earlier that day. Finding her beside Matthew's bed he hadn't wanted to intrude, but as soon as she'd seen him she followed him back to his office, leaving Matthew to sleep. He gathered that she had already been there for a while whilst he had been busy with administration, and that Matthew was quite tired out. He suspected that she probably was too, but didn't say anything about it to her. She sat quite calmly in the chair at the other side of his desk, her hands resting in her lap. At moments, as she listened to him talk about her son's condition, she looked young and frightened, at others the epitome of composed resolution. She did not ask any questions, to an experienced nurse like herself the case virtually explained itself.

Throughout, it was difficult for him not to think of the last time he had seen her: her, her face when she had first seen him in that house in Bloomsbury; her, how she had looked and felt as he had made love to her, waking with her body beside his in the morning; her getting onto a train at King's Cross; her plaintively beautiful little whisper that she would want to marry him. That she wanted to marry him. Obviously, he knew that there was every chance that would have changed by now; so much had changed, almost too much to contemplate. But, by God, he hoped she still wanted to. He could hardly bear not being able to reach out and comfort her now, or get up, move round the desk and take her in his arms. Kiss her until she could forget everything. He badly badly wanted to, but he didn't know if she would want it, and so he remained sitting as he was.

"Mrs Crawley," he said, just as she was about to leave.

The look in her eyes as she turned around was a little bit surprised; he suspected that it was at his formality. As flush of relief flooded through him.

"Isobel," he corrected himself, barely able to disguise a small smile at being able to call her that again, "How have _you_ been?"

"Much the same as ever," she told him, putting her coat back on, "Coping, just like everyone else is."

He hastened to help her with the coat.

"No, really," he hadn't quite meant it like that. What he wanted to ask was if she had been lonely. Had she thought of him? Had she missed him like he had missed her? For her sake, he hoped she hadn't. "Were you alright?"

His hand, though up until now he had been so careful to give her her enough space, not to overwhelm her, had found its way to hers, lingering hesitantly beside it. However, it seemed to help her get the picture. Smiling at him, she slipped her hand into his and squeezed it tightly.

"I was almost alright," she told him, "But for one thing."

Then she brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. It didn't feel odd at all, only natural. She was such a wonderful, brave woman to be in love with. He lent in and kissed her lips quickly, not letting go of her hand. She was exactly as he had remembered her.

They were saved from becoming completely absorbed in each other by the sound of something made of glass being dropped and smashing from outside the door.

"I'd better see what's going on," he had told her, "They can't be left alone for a moment. Are you back for good?" he asked suddenly, realising that he had merely assumed that she would be, the thought of anything else being too awful to want to contemplate.

"As long as my son is like that, I'm not going anywhere."

"Then you know where I am," he told her quietly, "If you want me."

He knew she understood him this time, he meant it in every sense.

"Thank you, Richard."

At the time he wished that it wouldn't have been so highly impractical for them to fall into each others arms there and then. It had seemed that they had both wanted to; a notion confirmed by the indisputable fact that she was now, a good few hours later, standing at his front door, a small case in her hand.

For a moment, he was so happy to see her that he simply stood there looking at her, taking in the sight of her and trying to convince himself that she was real and here with him. It wouldn't be the first time that he had imagined it, but she was so vivid that there was no way it could not be her.

"Crawley House feels dreadfully lonely without Matthew there," she told him by way of explanation, "I had forgotten what it's like."

He stood aside to let her in, helping her to take her coat off and taking case up the stairs. She had a funny feeling that it ended up in his bedroom. She hoped it did.

She followed him gratefully into the little sitting room when he returned, settling herself on the settee. She had been to his house for a few brief visits before, but never in the evening. It was much more like a home then. The fire was still going and she was thankful for it, she had been feeling unaccountably cold all day.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked her, "Tea or-..."

"No thank you, Richard. I'd rather you just-... just stayed with me for a little while. If that's alright."

She wondered if he had any idea of what an effort it was for her to ask him that; to begin after so many months of soldiering on, ignoring her own needs because the needs of those around her were so much greater, to articulate what she wanted, and how badly she wanted it.

"Of course it is."

She wondered if he could tell that what she had really wanted to ask was for him to hold her, and make her feel like he had done in London. He sat down beside her, his arm stretched away from his chest, inviting her to lean into him if she wanted to. Gratefully, she nestled herself under his arm and then, almost as if he could sense that she wanted to be closer still, he gently lifted her to sit in his lap. Nothing needed to be said for a very long time; the way that there bodies simply fell together was enough. As he had done before, his hand found the main clip holding her hair up and loosened it, letting her hair fall down her back so that he could stroke it gently. Her forehead rested in the crook of his neck, and he could feel her breath where he had unfastened his collar. Her hand rested flat against his waistcoat, feeling his pulse softly through the layers of clothing. No doubt, later on she would want to feel it much more closely, but not yet. She was immensely thankful that they were finding it this easy to be back together after all the time they had spent apart.

"Isobel," he asked tentatively after a while, "Was it awful?"

"I don't think hospitals are ever very pleasant in wartime," she replied, "I was jut fortunate that I knew more or less what to expect, it was no worse than I've seen before. I think some of the younger girls might have got quite a nasty shock."

"And away from the hospital?"

"Paris is beautiful," she replied simply, "There was always something to see somewhere but..."

"You were lonely," he finished for her.

She nodded against his neck.

"Was there no one you could talk to?" he asked. She could hear the pity in his voice.

"There were a few of the younger nurses who I took under my wing and-..." she caught herself just before she said it.

He noticed.

"And what?"

"I want to tell you the truth, Richard, but I don't want to upset you."

She could tell by the way his body suddenly tensed that avoiding upsetting him was now synonymous with telling him the whole truth.

"There was a man, a doctor as it happened, who I was rather friendly with. Only friendly," she added quickly, feeling him almost shudder, "He was a few years younger than me. All I ever was was his friend, Richard, I promise you that. I think there was a time where he thought there might be something more, but I put a stop to it. I didn't think he'd believe that I was engaged, so I told him that I was married. To you. Was that wrong of me?"

She looked tentatively up into his eyes and instantly found her answer. All she could see in them was love. She stretched up to kiss his lips, feeling his arms tighten around her, drawing her to him. By the time they broke apart, the fire had flickered out. She rested her forehead against his chin, feeling her heart beat wonderfully quickly.

"Would you like to go to bed?" he asked her, "You must be exhausted after-..."

"I'd like to go to bed," she cut across him, "But I'm not tired."

"Are you sure?" he asked her cautiously, "Please don't feel as if you have to. I will hold you for the whole night, if that's what you want. I don't want to do anything that you don't want to."

"I know that. But I want to."

This time he led her up the stairs. His bedroom was quite small- it was a fairly small house- but big enough to be comfortable. In fact, it was quite a large room, only the bed seemed to take up so much space. Taking off her shoes carefully, she stood back up to find him watching her closely.

"Richard-..." she found her voice was almost hoarse with longing, and she was silenced quickly as he kissed her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her tightly to his chest. The contact, though through many layers of clothing, was blissful. Opening her lips, his tongue slipped into her mouth, exploring her thoroughly. She was so absorbed in their kiss, that she was only vaguely aware of their reaching the bed and tumbling onto it.

As soon as their lips left each other, she was frustrated by the lack of contact. She needed to undress him, she needed to be undressed so that she could feel him against her skin. She didn't care if it made her wanton, brazen, any other self-righteous label that could be thrown on it. She wanted him. Reaching out, she began to unbutton his shirt, and was glad when she felt him do the same to her blouse.

This time there was no thought of turning out the light, she liked the implicit honesty between them, the need to hide absolutely nothing. Her hair loose and tumbling about her shoulders, she saw the passion she was evoking in his eyes as he looked at her. It didn't occur to her to wonder how, she knew that he was doing exactly the same to her. He removed her skirt and then, coaxing her to sit up, her corset. After a few moments lavishing attention to her breasts, he quickly stood up and removed his trousers, which she had already unfastened, and his shorts before sitting back down on the bed.

"Come here," he told her. The commanding tone in his voice was at the same time reassuring and sent shivers down her spine.

Gently, he coaxed her to sit in his lap, his excitement so close to her own that it almost unnerved her. It was difficult, at any rate, to keep herself in check. He rested his head on her shoulder, naturally drawing their bodies close together. One of his hands slipped between their bodies to knead her breasts, but what really drove her mad was his other hand, lightly, gently, running up and down the inside of her thigh near where it touched against his hip. When she thought she had just about adjusted to this- managing, just about, to keep her breathing under control- his head turned on her shoulder and he latched his lips onto her earlobe, sucking playfully. She heard herself moan out loud, as her hand grabbed the back of his head in surprise, winding itself into his hair as spasms of pleasure shot to her fingers. He continued with this until the sensations it created reached fever pitch, and she ground her heat against his thighs, desperately seeking release.

"Shh, Isobel." The sound of his voice low in her ear had any effect but that of calming her down.

She felt his arms move to hold her securely around the abdomen, lifting her gently to lie flat on the bed, moving his legs from under her. In order to allow him to move easily, she spread her legs, and did not have the time or willpower to close them, before she felt him lie between them, stroking the inside of her thigh again. Her hands rested on his shoulders, tightening a little as the little shocks of pleasure flooded through her in waves.

"Richard, touch me, please."

She didn't even care that she was begging him, all she knew was that she needed, she needed-...

She cried out as his fingers pushed her knickers to the side and she felt two of his fingers slipping between her folds and into her. Arching her back, throwing her head back, she fought to keep her breathing under control, knowing how little point there was in trying to hold back or hide the state she was in, trying to deny the extent of the abandoned ecstasy he was capable of evoking in her. The reactions of her body to his tiniest touch, how very very wet she was for him betrayed her explicitly. His fingers moved hard and fast, matching, leading the pace of her hips. When his lips moved and latched onto one of her nipples, sucking it hard between his teeth, as he pressed his thumb firmly against her sex, she knew she was lost, and called out his name as name as she came hard and fast.

Bliss. The most ineffable bliss she had ever felt. The black, all-consuming bliss that she had longed for.

When she regained a sense of who and where she was, she found that he was holding her patiently in his arms, waiting for her to come back to him. As soon as she was able to, she smiled at him.

"Thank you, Richard."

She found that her hand had been clutching at the back of his thick hair. He kissed her lips softly and slowly.

"Do you know, Isobel," he asked her, a tone akin to reverence in his voice, "How beautiful you are?"

She did not know what to say to that, and blinked at him rather confusedly. His hand wandered to her hip, slowly tracing over the gentle roundness there, over the fabric of her knickers to reach her skin again.

"It's alright," she told him as his fingers reached the fabric again after repeating the motion a few times, "You can do it."

He looked up into her eyes and she nodded, before he drew the undergarment down her legs and off. His hand rested almost possessively between her open legs.

"So beautiful," he told her again, "Especially when you're like this."

His other hand resting on her waist, his eyes never leaving her face, his hand slipped back into the curls at her centre, between her wet folds to tease her gently.

She couldn't bear it any more, letting him pleasure her like this, while denying himself. Just able to coordinate her thoughts and her hand, she reached out to touch his excitement. She heard him draw a sharp inward breath of surprise.

"Richard, make love to me. Please."

She knew that he wouldn't need telling twice, but still she guided him to her rather insistently, loving the way he sank himself into her slowly, allowing her to adjust and letting her feel every inch of him. All she could think of when their hips finally met and they lay still for a moment was of how heady the feeling of reunion was between them. The most wonderful thing, as he drew away, and sank back into her, was that this time she did not have to hold on, preserving the final moments before oblivion because she feared that they may be their last. Drawing him close to her as the speed of his thrusts increased, she felt the knot of excitement tightening in her stomach. He came first, exploding inside her with such force that it sent her over the edge as well, her whole body reeling with the wonder of it.

She knew she had called his name at the height of it, but as she calmed back down, their bodies still connected all she could think of was what she whispered again and again amid her shallow breaths:

"I love you. I love you."

**End. (Unless anyone wants any more, in which case, ideas to me!)**

**Please review if you have the time. **


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